


chosen

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8896783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: The Chantry claims it knows the Maker's will. Does it know that in this Age, the Maker's plans for the Chantry begin with an unassuming young mage on the eve of the Fifth Blight?





	

When Anansi Surana was a wee thing, before the Templars came to take him away from the world, he dreamed of a city of light.  
Safe inside its walls, he danced and played and laughed with many other children– children with pointed ears and children with rounded ones, children who sang of Stone and children who looked a little like dragons. Adults watched them with shining eyes and gentle smiles, and fed them sweets and told them tales, and above all the sun shone endlessly, and the warmth of that sun wrapped around him like a loving embrace, and promised peace.

Anansi Surana used to call himself a child of the sun, would turn his face up to it and smile at it, even though it made him squint. His parents would laugh indulgently, but sometimes his mother would cock her head and gaze contemplatively at him as he turned his small brown face up to the sky.

When the Templars came to take him away from the world, his father wept, but his mother did not. “You are a child of the sun,” she promised fiercely, “and the sun will never go away from you. _Remember.”_

In the Circle, he learnt of the Black City, of the magisters’ folly and the punishment that continues to this day. At first, he would still dream of the city of light, but the sun seemed to be setting. And then, one day, after a long day of training, he dreamed that he was outside of the city, and the city’s light was dimming fast.

In the Circle, he learnt that the Maker had turned away, and no longer smiled upon His children. He learnt that the Chantry was the Maker’s voice in a world that no longer knew Him, and that only the Chantry knew the Maker’s will, and only the Chantry could bring the Maker back. And the Chantry knew what was keeping the Maker away, what displeased the Maker most.

 _He_ displeased the Maker most. When he failed in his tests because he couldn’t beat his wild mind into submission, when he was caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen to his heartsick friends in his dorm, when he took up the habit of sharing his bed with anyone who needed his warmth, when he tried to break into the Harrowing chamber because he’d felt his friend call for him, he’d _felt_ it, they were hurting her and he had to _help_ her, he _had_ to–

He was not a good student. He was not a good listener. He was not a good mage. And the city in his dreams grew farther away, and bleaker, and blacker.

He became a better student. He became a better listener. He became a better mage. And eventually, he was Harrowed.

In the Fade he met a spirit that said nothing, just stayed a little ahead of him, glimmering temptingly, drawing him forward. He followed it, suspicious and anxious; although he feared that he was being led to his doom, a strange quietude stayed his hand. Within moments, the abandoned city appeared before them, shrouded in darkness.

 _“Remember,”_ the spirit said in his mother’s voice, and as if no time at all had passed, he felt four years old again, the sun bright and warm upon his upturned face, and he wept.

He wept because the sun had never gone away from him, but had only been obscured by the Circle’s teaching. He wept because the Chantry had taught him that he was a scourge, an anomaly, a dangerous and unholy thing – but before that, he’d known he was Light, a wondrous thing, the Maker’s own child. He wept because he was lost, and lonely, and his sorrow had extinguished the light within him, the spark that was but a mirror of the Maker’s Light.

 _“Awaken,”_ the spirit said in its own voice, and Anansi wiped his face and turned it up to the sun again, and let his pain go, and let love fill him. He thought of the darkness of the Circle, and imagined it filled with the light of the sun. He saw the light of the sun bursting through the tower and sundering it, and motes of light being released from their prison to illuminate the world.

 _“Come back,”_ the spirit said in the Maker’s voice. Anansi awoke in the Harrowing chamber, and a tense moment passed, and then the Templars’ hands relaxed and fell away from their sword hilts, and the ritual was ended.

Anansi dreamed that night, of a city of light.  
Safe inside its walls, he danced and played and laughed with many other children– children with pointed ears and children with rounded ones, children who sang of Stone and children who looked a little like dragons. Adults watched them with shining eyes and gentle smiles, and fed them sweets and told them tales, and above all the sun shone endlessly, and the warmth of that sun wrapped around him like a loving embrace, and promised peace.

This time, Anansi walked to the gates of the city, threw them open, and began to sing. And forsaken, suffering, war-torn masses followed his voice, and called him _prophet,_ and filled the city, and their light was replenished, and they were given rest.  
 _"Become,"_ spoke the Maker's voice. When he looked down at himself, he was wearing the robes of the office of Grand Enchanter, and the sunburst that was the sigil of the Chantry shone with a blessed light.

 _“Guide them,”_ spoke the Maker’s voice, and Anansi understood.


End file.
